Serendipity
by Pearla
Summary: The disastrous love affair ended leads Persia Cousland flees Ferelden for Orlais on the day of the King's coronation. Two years later Zevran finds her, but even the King's best laid plans can go awry. Dragon Age: O & II character cameos. I'm a bit writing shy still so reviews are much appreciated.
1. A Little Fairy Tale

You may have noticed that that main character's name has changed. If someone would beta me that would be smashing.

* * *

_**Serendipity **is the effect by which one accidentally stumbles upon something fortunate, especially while looking for something entirely unrelated._

"She says people ought to learn to live like them, with the body abandoned in a wilderness, and in the mind the memory of a single kiss, a single word, a single look to stand for a whole love."  
-Marguerite Duras

**A _Little_ ****Fairy Tale**

After Ostagar, the numbness was better than the feeling of wrenching and tearing at her heart as Duncan was forced to drag her from the abattoir that was once home. Alistair's grief was easier to watch; the impact creeping through him, the realized horror in his voice, the way nightmares left purple shadows under his eyes, the bitter retelling of men that never became the heroes they were groomed to be.

After, wandering through a doomed town she finds herself coaxing him into letting her help him bear the loss. She realized that he was then a new brother of an order with only a footnote in history. It brought her up short, like the hand on her shoulder giving her strength to walk into a damned tower, full of living nightmares.

He acted strange alternating between fidgety, tight lipped fear and quiet tremors when they wended their way toward Redcliffe, she paused long enough to ask him why. The answer should have surprised her, instead she felt like it was all a bizarre fairytale. _This is just like a fool driven adventure story!_

Persia watched the light play across his face from the nearby fire. She thinks, he isn't wild or rough, his charm lies in the fact that he is soft even with all of his training, the studied way of his with sword and shield. More than anything he is brave and kind. She loved him then, just a little bit, but the volition had already taken hold. He will be king. The serendipity of the whole situation is far too coincidental for anything other than the uncanny hand of fate.

She had taken the swamp witch into her confidences long before this and when she finally confesses that she is a _little_ in love with the almost templar, Morrigan laughs. Admitting that rather than do the enchanted things of lovers' past; she plans to throw her heart down the cliffs of destiny and make him the king he was always supposed to be, she doesn't laugh. Which comes as a surprise. Instead Morrigan looks at her and nods, sighing the long sound of those accustomed to the whims of a power beyond them.

After Eamon wakes up from his fade clouded death-sleep, he knows. She doesn't know how he knows, but he pulls her aside and she divulges her plans, the smile on his face brilliant.

The deep roads scare everyone. When they make camp they are drawn close together. They all stand within the light of the same campfire, listening to the echoes of the dead myths Leliana whispers so the sound doesn't echo off the rocks encircling them.

Goldanna is rough and sharp-tongued, embittered by years of labor. She turns Alistair away and when he turns to her, she tells him the truth he will have to learn as king. _It is like this... Always, everyone really is out for themselves. _His face contorts once, a terrible fact. He still manages a smile for her.

The Dalish are angry and sad, humming with gods trapped between the dark, twisted souls of old and the Maker, Andraste. Zevran tries not to scoff at them. Oghren laughs at them, mocking their strange words. Alistair tries to speak with them, to understand.

When the time comes to promise everything, she simply doesn't promise Cailan's widow anything. Choosing to announce Alistair's birthright as king before the Landsmeet of Ferelden. It was a solemn affair until that moment, then it all went very fast. Eamon at the head and heels of every decision.

He is very angry, but not for long because even he knows what must be done. What choice did they really have? You can't call for a Teyrn's blood and bow out of a kingship when you are the only one left.

She thinks their undoing will be the final battle when Riordan tells them that one must end to finish it. It is not a king's duty, so it must fall to her or Riordan. Like all good tales there is a loophole and Morrigan finds her crying, fear snaking through her,"Do this one selfish thing, for _you_."

And so, she goes to the king to be and begs him. He must love her a little still because he does it. When she is weak, all of them unbearably tired, coughing up blood, and bracing broken ribs she gives the final blow. The soul of a god slipping up through her, she collapses.

When she wakes up it isn't in the fade, it is alive to watch him become the king. He takes the crown graciously, smiles to his subjects and as the cheers go up, she stumbles out into the impossibly bright world, to a ship headed down the Waking Sea.

Somewhere along the way she had tripped over her plans as he softly pressed the rose into her hands. Soon he was the warmth in her tent and her heart, it happened as if it was always supposed to and she feels cheated of an impossibly bright future.


	2. Val Royeaux

_Just a little bit of clean up here. _

* * *

_"How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself?"_  
_-Anais Nin_

**Val Royeaux**

It was almost two years to the day of her arrival in Orlais. Stepping off the ship she had taken pause at all the ladies in their finery, while she stood around in her armor, forever the odd duckling.

Orlais, Val Royeaux in particular always had a brighter air about it, more vivacious. It was a land of refinement, not like Highever or Denerim. When she walked by the shops the combined smells of numerous perfumes made her head swim almost unpleasantly. After years of being covered in blood and gore she would pass the perfumeries to pause at the ateliers. The colors of all the dresses: emeralds, deep sapphires, canary yellows, luscious pinks, and demure purples. Drifting into one with the lowest decollete and copious amounts of green silk fabrics.

"Edmée. I am here to pick up my order for the fete." It had taken her half a year to relearn all the dances her mother had taught her, then she had to learn every new Orlesian hairstyle, and work on her accent. At least her parents had insisted she learn Orlesian, assuming they would either be invaded again or make peace.

Edmée was full of good cheer, with dark brown hair, dancing blue eyes and always full of repartee's. "I hear Dean Rose tricked you into coming to his fete. Something about a doorman quite early in the morning?"

Persia caught herself blushing, "Gossip! He sent one of his servants by every morning for two weeks until I finally agreed. I thought he would never stop, at this point I'm not so sure he would have."

"He wouldn't have, I can assure you. He has had his sights on you since you bought the house by the river," Edmée paused in the middle of pinning a dress, "Here, you have no idea how long those seed pearls took me to sew in."

She thanked her and made her way down toward the seaside markets. Smelling the lower markets were all that ever reminded her of Highever, the smell of fish and the salt tang of the sea. The smell was forever drawing her down to hear the lull and roar of the Waking Sea, the shipyard workers hollering out to one another over the din of voices from every country and province of Thedas.

Word from Ferelden had been sparse since she had arrived, nothing of the King other than the scandal that he wasn't yet married, but that was regular news and people were tired of it here. Shortly after she arrived rumors began spreading that the Hero of Ferelden had disappeared from the coronation, with no one the wiser as to her whereabouts. A bard had been singing of her, not allowing her tale to be forgotten and even more salacious... an assassin was seeking her out! All of this was old news.

She found her way back to the two story house that she called her own, the Orlesian wardens and the Dauphine more than happy to remunerate her for her deeds and defeat of the darkspawn. Entering the foyer she tossed her package into a nearby chair, thinking that she hadn't been that discreet about her whereabouts, surly anyone asking around could find her easily. Having left Ferelden on the first ship going anywhere, she could just as well have been in Antiva now.

She snorted, "Then Zevran really would have found me. Thibault! Thib, where are you?"

They could have just asked about a mabari and found her, she thought. They couldn't have asked about a mabari named Albert since she saw it fitting to rename him and he was smart enough to answer to Thib. It was a better name than Bert.

Where was he?

"Thib? Thibby? Oh, my dear old dog?" She had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. The house looked undisturbed, but perhaps someone had been inside it. Climbing the stairs, she had been so long without the fear of imminent death that she wasn't quite sure where the closest dagger was. Mentally, she counted; _one in bed, one by the foyer fireplace, one attached to the chair on the second floor-_

"Oh." Quickly and as quietly as she could, her breath ragged with fear as reached under the pink fleur de lis patterned chair and wrenched the dagger out from underneath it. She'd been calling for Thibault so any intruder would already know she was here.

Making herself march to the door of her bedroom she contemplated kicking it open, but in case she was being foolish she decided to twist the knob with as much speed as possible and stand to the left. No point in having to fix a door when she paid too much for a party dress today as is.

With all her force the door whooshed open and banged against the wall with enough force to leave an indent where the doorknob hit. _Smooth. _Yelling out an obscure Oghrenish war cry, she jumped forward to find an elf with blond hair hanging half way down his back feeding Thib treats.

It felt like the intruder had gotten the slip on her and punched her squarely in the gut, "Zevran?"


	3. Old Friend

_"What she said was always strange. It had happened long ago. It seemed insignificant. And yet it was something you remembered forever. The words as well as the story. The voice as much as the words."_  
_-Marguerite Duras_

**Old Friend**

He turned to her a smile, it played at the corners of his lips, his face set with more determination than she remembered. "Albert looks well. Or... what did I hear you calling him?"

"Thib." The word comes out a little softer, the dagger hanging limply in the air between them.

"I liked Albert better, but I see your tastes have changed." His smile widens, his white teeth peeping out.

"It took you a long time-"

"To find you? No, no. I knew where you were from the beginning. You left so quickly, but I saw you. The dock hands noticed what ship you boarded. At the very least, I had an idea." His eyes were saying _give me credit_, but his hand reached up between them, he took the weapon from her.

"Well, you certainly waited a long time!"_How _do _you trick an assassin? You don't. _She was trying to be flippant, but her heart was still racing. Maybe the king had sent him to find her and finish her off. _Where does his loyalty lie now?_

Thibault jumped off the bed and woofed at her gently, trying to tell her it was alright, he settled for snuffling at her hand before she reached down to pat him. "I don't know what to say. It's been two years." What if the rumors were true?

He shrugged, "Leliana misses you."

"Then she should come back to Orlais. She could visit me." She hears her voice coming out harsh, this wasn't the way you were supposed to treat your friends.

"I think she likes the part of courier and bard far too much in Ferelden's court." Zevran laughs, eyes her, the beginning of a story obvious on his tongue, but he stops.

_Don't. Be pleasant. _This time it is her mother's voice in her head, forcing her hand. "H-how are you? I hope you are well."

Zevran always cut to the heart of the matter with her, even though he loved pleasantries and banter, knew when she was using it to parry the truth. "When you left, he asked. He went looking. All those things ex-lovers do. Or are supposed to do. I chose not to tell him. I always wondered, why else would you leave? Did you have your heart set on him and the throne? Morrigan said you didn't."

The past is vivid in the caress of his voice, perhaps he is a spirit come to seduce her memories, "No. I don't want it. Didn't." _Just to be clear._

He brings two chairs over, sits down. His armor is different, a deep green and black with silver buckles that resemble stylized mabari. She considers it, hands clamped behind her back.

"Sit."

She does. Leg crossed, hands clasped in her lap.

"What would you have done if I hadn't come to find you? You wouldn't have come back, I know this. So tell me... how is Orlais?"

"I have a few friends, it took me a long time. I learned Orlesian in Ferelden so they could barely understand a word I said! Val Royeaux is beautiful, I never imagined it could be so. I came here expecting something else entirely." Glancing down at her boots, then back up she looks at him and is a hardly surprised to see that he is wearing Antivan leather. Maybe he had been traveling.

"No lovers?"

"Not exactly." Flushing fiercely, she is forced to look up as he laughs.

"No one quiet so pretty as me?" He shrugs, flips his hair, winks.

_Must be calm, must be careful. _She uncrosses her legs, licks her lips, "Zevran, why are you here? You could have come much sooner."

"I was out and about. Maybe I was looking for Grey Wardens." His smile turns pointed, she shifts under his gaze. She wasn't going to get any information from him this way.

It's almost to much to admit it to herself. She wanted her mind to still, the room to stop half-heartily spinning. Her voice raises up, cracking,"He sent you, didn't _he_?"

"After two years? He's given up, _bella_. I was looking for warden recruits. The King is in a fervor to rebuild everything! The castle is shining with his glory, the bards are giving him a title and Ferelden is becoming powerful, refined...all those words one would use for Antiva or Orlais."

"Mmm." Getting up and taking her dagger back from him, she heads out down to the foyer. If he wasn't going to inform her as to why he was in Orlais she wasn't going to waste time with him. Gathering up the soft shelled box she removes the dress from the wrapping. Edmée called the hue 'Seheron' green when Persia looked over the swatches with her. It was this or 'Ferelden Racing', but it didn't seem to bring out the color in her eyes and she didn't think she wanted to be reminded of the place any more than she had to be.

"A lovely color, to be sure." Zevran had followed her, his steps soundless.

"I thought so, I have a party to attend tonight." She knew it for a mistake as soon as she said it, but as she flashes him a bright smile she finds herself begging: _Please__, don't invite yourself._

Like most assassins and especially those who have known their mark for a long time, he quirks an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side, "I have a mind to follow you."

There is no getting out of it. He'd come along no matter what she'd say.


	4. Slow

_"The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror."  
-Anais Nin_

**Slow**

Having pinned up her hair, rouged her cheeks and lips, she laces up her dress as best as possible in the fading light. The tense conversation with her visitor has lasted longer than had been anticipated. She diffuses perfume in the air and steps through it on her way to crack the door and listen.

Zevran had chosen to change in the room left of the foyer, on the lower level. Though were he had a sack of clothes stashed she had no clue. It had always been a source of curiosity for all members during the Blight, in fact there had been a pool reaching infamous levels as they all sought to find where he hid his possessions. Not a one of them had found anything.

Thib followed her as she closed the door to her room, silently creeping down the stairs. Gently, she rubs behind his ears and shushes him with a finger to her lips as she slips out the front door. Revelers are traveling to and fro, dandies stepping through the doorsteps of the famed Orlesian courtesans who are laughing near illuminated windows. The aura of oleanders, lilies and roses float up through the night from the gardens of each building. Even as she thought to fade into the night movement catches her eye. He is next to her, his arm proffered.

He doesn't speak, this being the avant-garde behavior that defines Zevran. Flashing a glance at his clothes she is forced to admit that he has always known the correct dress wear for any occasion; a primarily black ensemble with a smoky golden vest, an emerald tie contrasting above a snowy cotton button down.

As they travel along the busy street, the river thrumming lowly in their ears, "Dean won't be happy to see you with me. He spent a great deal of time persuading me to come."

"Then he should have made his intentions clear, asked for you outright. Like I would have done." He isn't smiling, but he is gazing at her, eyes flicking up to meet hers. It all feels very cat and mouse to her with the spark in his eyes.

He brushes his fingers along the silk of her gown and they continue along the cobbled side streets, nearing the Great Cathedral of Val Royeaux. The bells humming in the bellows and the voices of chantry sisters rising above it. For months they used to wake her up, startled from nightmares and convinced the resounding peels were warning alarms.

Dean's estate is small, essentially just a city house; tonight every light was ablaze, the faint sounds of tinkling laughter emanating from it. While it would be easier to walk inside and face Dean, she stops Zevran. He looks at her her, vaguely irked for a moment before his face clears and she can't be sure she had actually seen it. Detaching her hand from his arm, "Nothing inappropriate. Please."

He tsks her, "You worry so!"

Perhaps the look on Dean's face, a sort of startled bemusement that darkens to sour glances as the night wears on is what makes her laugh and drink too much brandy. Perhaps it is Zevran's hands, which are _everywhere _and _nowhere _it shouldn't be when anyone in the room would notice. Finally, being able to greet Dean properly as Zevran is away getting more drinks. She endeavors not to fall over her skirts. Before she can begin, Dean is being gracious about her dress and complimenting everything about here there is to compliment.

"Well, yes, thank you." This is all she can finish with and he is looking at her sadly, a bit familiar now that she thinks about it. "You remind me of someone I used to know in Ferelden."

_Urg. _Because now his face is flushed and has reached up to toss a hand through his hair and his voice is light, but false, "That is very kind of you. And who may I ask do I remind you of?"

This, she thinks, is why she doesn't drink. "He was a friend of mine, a warden actually and the uh-"

"Cousin of an Arl." Zevran is back and has saved her from saying _The King _and having the whole awful story forced out of her.

Dean's blue eyes are focused on the elf and she has the distinct feeling that the room is turning too hot very quickly. "Oh. Which cousin?"

"Twice removed from the family, a little slow, but very, very nice." Zevran's voice is so slick that he has enough time to pull Persia outside before she or Dean notices the 'slow' part. Mutually silent, she finds herself striving not to fall face first in the street, ripping her dress and walking fast enough to keep up with Zevran.

Perhaps she is very drunk because her house looms into view much quicker than she expected it to and suddenly he has her hands hitched up, locked in his and the heat of his breath on her face, the spice scent flooding her. The air is sucked out between them as his lips melds against hers.


	5. Deception

_We may be  
on this road but  
we're just  
impostors  
in this country you know_

_-Tori Amos, A Sorta Fairytale_

**Deception**

His fingers at the back of her neck urging her forward, pressing her further against him. Thighs shaking, the realization that she is _kissing Zevran _clicks into place, but then he is breaking the kiss, trailing his fingers along her neck, breathing words into her ear. Meaningless, but they sound like a devotion.

As he pulls back, frees her from the door, there is something, _something _in the look on his face. Rather than study him, she sighs, her breath coming short and broken. Placing strands of her hair back, forcing her eyes down and away from him. "What is this?"

"Companionship." He exhales the word back to her, as he meanders through to the door.

By the end of the first week Persia abandons the idea of asking him when he'll return to Ferelden. After two days in the small room by the foyer, he moves himself to the second floor room next to her own. He doesn't bother to ask, just does it with the easy grace of a knowing friend.

Even with Thib at her side she has to admit she was lonely. The few friends she did have spent much of the time in the countryside, especially in the summer and besides a few small parties she attended, she spent a lot of time around the house. These things were hard to admit to herself.

Before she was just a Teyrn's daughter playing with swords, squirming under the rules of her family.

Defeating the archdemon was supposed to have been the end of her. Despite that task it was expected that the Grey Wardens be rebuilt and rather than face it... she had withdrawn and fled. She had quit being a Grey Warden somewhere along the path to Orlais. In all truth, even in the beginning she wasn't sure how much more of it should could take. Always she acted as leader, it was a ceaseless, daunting undertaking, filled with just as many waking nightmares as the darkspawn choked dreams.

Zevran must have observed her increasingly darkening disposition; he found her sitting at the kitchen table with her hands bunched around a chilled cup of tea, staring at nothing in particular. It was his voice that snapped her out of her blood saturated thoughts.

"This isn't like you, this mood of yours isn't fit for much. Come, we'll find something to do in the markets." He is smiling at her with a hand placed lazily on the table, he pulls her out of her chair and into the bright street. Making their way towards the apex of mingling smells, they find that the market is indeed busy, nobles mingling with the district's poorer counterparts, "What you Fereldens don't seem to know is that there is so much under the veneer of these streets, the people are all bluffing, hiding some deep tempestuous secret. This you would like to see."

Persia falls behind a little as Zevran leads her to Edmée's shop, perhaps she doesn't want to know these things and he smirks knowingly; the sunshine illuminating the lighter shades of his hair as he turns to look through the shop window.

She feels herself bristling, stepping back, "I'm not sure about this, we should move on to someone else."

His hand is wrapped around hers before she can shrink back, "She is vivacious, sweet and young. Nothing so special, but she gives you discounts and has a fondness for that noble we visited. What was his name?"

"Dean Rose."

"Now that is fascinating, you see that isn't even his full name. Noblemen hide secrets so well here when one knows where to apply the right pressure and proper investments. Bards are excellent for this, no? Ah, if Leliana were here, the tales she could tell us."

There is a hard glint to his eyes, the smile enigmatic because this is why he brought her here, not to discount her friend, but to inform her. It would still hurt. _What is it I should have known? _"He isn't Orlesian, is he?"

The answer is already in the arc of his voice, chastising her for not seeing it. "Oh, he is Orlesian... of a sort. It just so happens that his father spent a lot of time in Ferleden during the war, he was quite circumspect and sly when the Theirin line was back in power. They have a small holding in the Bannorn. He adopted his surname from it: Dallin."

"You said it was just a small holding and many Orlesians kept a hand in Ferelden after the war! What does it mean?" Her shoulders are slumping of their own accord, her hands covering her eyes, still listening. _I have certainly been a fool._

"The senior Dallin sent him to Orlais, he has only been here for a year and a half. It was on orders from the King. It didn't take long for him to know what I knew, surely others saw you depart and arrive here." Deftly his fingers are drawing circles over the bones of her hands, his voice going soft, "What I gathered from Dallin and this dressmaker? The King is having regrets."

The pounding in her head feels like the morning after trying to drink Oghren under the table, when she can speak it comes out harsher than she intended, "What _regrets_?"

"Who am I to know the thought of that dull man. Maybe that he should have married you. He is also rather upset that you evaded your duty to the crown. But, it is how they planned on delivering you to the King that is fascinating."

Zevran maneuvered them away from the crown into a convenient nook by the shop before she could ask, "When I read over the correspondence between Dallin and his father there was some plan. The Dallin family didn't think you would return to Ferelden without a fight, or at the very least, in chains. The plan was to drug you at one of the many soirees the son was to give. It was to be slow acting drug that could be easily passed off as a drunk that would soon result in unconsciousness. Then you would have been bound and shipped off down the Waking Sea to the arms of the King. I wonder, what he would have thought of this had he known?"

"That bastard! Those traitorous whore-sons! I have every right to a life of _my_ own. I gave him that crown, dragged him along every step! If he knew where I was he should have sent a message asking me to come, not this scheme." Persia finds herself shaking with rage, the murderous intent clear for Zevran to see.

His tone is light, but deceptively trying to catch her attention, "You also forced it on him, he complained about it every moment after Redcliffe when you told Eamon what you planned. I often wondered if Ferelden would have accepted a mute king. I considered cutting out his tongue when he plodded all the way through the Brecilian Forest moaning about it."

Bemused, she catches his eye, "I'm sure they would have since Eamon was backing him."

Even when she acknowledges the past, the hurt on her face is clear for anyone to see. Zevran wonders how it wasn't obvious to every Orlesian that she was more than the hurt girl she seemed, he pauses to say something to alleviate it, but there is nothing in his repertoire suited to dealing with this. If he could, it is too late because she is extracting herself from his grip and the nook they are squeezed into.

Her mask is on again and she is calm above the seething mass of disgust building up in her, "Zev, I want to have a chat with Dallin, preferably armed."

He is pleased to oblige her.


	6. Charlatan

_A million roads, a million fears  
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty  
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,  
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time  
But if there was a single truth, a single light  
A single thought, a singular touch of grace  
Then following this single point , this single flame,  
The single haunted memory of your face_

_-Sting, A Thousand years_

**Charlatan**

She considered her plain leather armor in the mirror, she felt it was remarkable that she could even remember after all this time where each strap connected. Pinning up her hair was a habit of the Blight, leaving her hair down anymore had become a symbol of who she was, a reminder that a blank slate was something that never existed. The past was far reaching and if the Dallin family was any example, it was inescapable as well.

Zevran knocked once before stepping into her room, perhaps hoping to catch her in a varying state of undress. Persia let herself regard him, it was amazing that he wasn't tying his hair back as well, the length of it well down his back and apt to be in the way during a skirmish. He always seemed to be able to look dashing and somehow knife his way through a fray without being covered in quite as much gore at the rest of the companions. Regardless of any weather he was always deeply tanned, one could never be sure if it was simply breeding or a life out in the world that attributed to it.

"You are here barely any time at all and you find some plot that could possibly end in our capture, torture, or death. I never had this problem before."

It is his smile which seems more forced than it should be, his hand rubbing his jaw practiced, "Had you been looking closer you would have seen it clearly. You must be grateful I am here, I could be off being chased by the Crows."

"They are chasing you now, aren't they? All your movements seem like some badly written play, all an act. You are hiding something and I'd rather know now if it is dangerous and completely unavoidable."

She considered biting her tongue, but diplomacy escaped her more often in situations than she would ever like to admit. She wished she never said it because the look on his face isn't pleasant, it is bordered on a sneer. He was a better at pretending than anyone, perhaps better than Leliana. It occurs to Persia that maybe he wanted to be found out, before she can voice it though, he is speaking quickly.

"It isn't the Crows and no one is going to get tortured or killed. You can be sure of that. I'd rather we take care of the real trouble, but the Orlesian guards might notice some well armored people during the day , but we will be much more conspicuous at nightfall. We should go now, we can skirt around the city at twilight, fake leaving if we have to."

"Then lets not waste any more time. What about Thib? Should we take him along?"

"That wouldn't be a good idea considering you are Ferelden and where we might hide that alone a mabari would give us away completely."

With a soft sigh and sad pat to Thib's head, they head out through the city. They encounter two close calls, but both times Zevran is ready and holds a hand up to stop her. The guards are less alert than they would be at full night, but by the time they reach the estate the light has faded to the merest slivers of gold sinking below the horizon.

The air is oppressive, with the tang of electricity hanging in the air. The door is ajar to the Dallin house. Zevran doesn't speak, but gives her a heavy look and indicates going forward. It is obvious that magic has been preformed lately and the damages are clear once she pushes the door aside, the hinges squeaking at their entrance. The foyer is covered in half burned papers, heavy gilt Orlesian vases are cracked and strewn about, every exotic planter is broken, the soil scattered about.

"One mage?" She breathes to Zevran, the damage made it obvious that this was more than some brawl, it was a serious fight. How many men did this person overcome? It was clear that if the Dallin family intended to drag her back to Ferelden that there would be more men in the house to help bring her down.

There is blood on the second door they approach, an arrow embedded in it as well. Well, someone had been in the foyer to shoot it. The air is metallic, this door is also open, but partially blown off its hinges. Signaling, they quietly rush in, daggers ready, but they are met with no resistance, just bodies. Eight, no, twelve men dead around this mage slumped over in the corner. Scarett is assaulted by the smell of burned flesh, the fire lit in the room showing the hands of the men burnt away, the larger parts of them still smoking.

"Good," it is the word tearing from her throat that makes the man look up. Pure shock runs though her, bolting her to the floor. The sharp, cherished lines of his face, the sweet curve of his lips, but it is the familiar eyes that undo her; honey colored and honest in the firelight, but furtive at the sight of well armed people.

This is not the same man and she thinks Andraste must be laughing somewhere.


	7. Salt Sick

_It doesn't mean much, it doesn't mean anything at all_  
_The life I've left behind me, is a cold room_  
_I've crossed the last line, from where I can't return_  
_Where every step I took in faith betrayed me_  
_And led me from my home_  
_-Sarah McLachlan, Sweet Surrender_

**Salt Sick**

His fingers are long, thin, well shaped, and smooth for someone usually initiated into the order of Grey Wardens, it is easier for her to look at his hands; it distracts her from looking up into his face. After a few deep calming breaths, when she finally manages to regard him, the ravaged look in his eyes caches any words she was attempting to speak rigidly in her throat. From the moment she caught his gaze she had unconsciously began chanting: _It isn't him, it isn't him._

And it wasn't. Once Zevran begins the task of talking to him it becomes apparent that he has a fair amount of anger at the Dallin family and the circle in general. That is perfectly clear.

"And now they are all dead? Even the son?" Zevran's words drifting over her, having managed to sit herself away from both of them, she was forced into a chair near more fingers, albeit dead, charred fingers.

"He fled, down toward the cellars I think. I can't be quite sure. I was busy with these men." He motions almost imperceptibly at the bodies, a man accustomed to death.

Zevran has taken the initiative, but soon he is looking her up and down out of the corner of his his green eyes questioning everything, knowing it all from her body language. She was hunched over, arms protectively across her chest, defensive, fearful.

"We should pursue." Soon Zevran is speaking at no one, maybe to the air, looking towards the door, signaling for her to come with his fingers. Nodding to the mage, "If you would lead?"

He nods back, stern and suspecting. He is smart to assume why Zevran would ask him to lead, he'd slip a dagger in his back at the first sign of trouble or he'd make a nice wall in case or more enemies. When she finally manages to pick herself up, certain she isn't going to choke on laughter at the coincidence and join them he glaces at her, a glint of humor in his face, a small smile on his lips, "I'm Anders by the way. You might be less likely to kill me if you know my name."

She can manage a nod, perhaps he is a blood mage because she finds the inability to speak is still plaguing her. They continue down the stairs when Zevran pulls her back, slowing her down, "Have you been struck dumb? Is this some magic?"

"I just think he looks familiar. I can't-"

He takes it all in, the color in her cheeks, the fear in her voice and he is stony faced and his tongue is sharper and deeper than she has ever heard it, "You can. You will and you'll stop this. This isn't some ghost here to taunt you. Whatever this is, you need to quit or I will end him and be rid of the whole trouble."

Goaded, she tears her arm away, it must be the desired affect because he urges her along. Telling herself to _stop this_ doesn't quite alleviate the strangeness in her stomach and heart. Instead of looking ahead she focuses on the walls of the cellar covered in moss, the faint sound of water dripping.

"Explain to us why you killed Dallin's men exactly?" Zevran is lagging behind, head cocked, listening to far off sounds.

"The new King of Ferelden shelters mages. He doesn't help the templars hunt them. This Dallin family had been letting mages on the run think they would be helped if they came to them, when in reality they were selling them to slavers. I came to see if it was true, turns out it was." Anders gives the impression of a shrug, doesn't offer more information because there is torch light glimmering ahead of them, the smell of salt invading the pathway.

Before Anders can speak arms reach out from the opening of the cavern, his figure is ripped away from them, the light now impossibly blinding and the sound of a blade being torn free behind her is the last thing she hears before something cracks and she is drawn down into darkness.

When she gains some consciousness the world is inky black, and cold, but there is a figure next to her, the prickling of hay and the sickening roll of the sea beneath them. Reaching out she doesn't find elf ears, but the warm tingling of a warden. There is little more she can do because her head is as sick as her heart and stomach. She finds the oblivion of that dark place again.


	8. Hunger

Forgive the roughness of this chapter. I will go back and make more corrections later, just trying to get this out here. Between moving and everything it's been sitting partly written for four months.

* * *

_"The man who was once starved may revenge himself upon the world not by stealing just once, or by stealing only what he needs, but by taking from the world an endless toll in payment of something irreplaceable, which is the lost faith."__  
__—_Anaïs Nin

**Hunger**

It's the shifting light that wakes her, the sensation of cool hands hovering; immediately the hairs on the back of her neck are rising to the tingle of magic, "What? Wynne?"

"No, I'm not Wynne. You must have been hit very hard about the head. Stay still for just a moment more." It's a calming voice, Persia thinks as the memories slowly come back to her. Her eyes adjusting to the light coming through from the metal grating above them, part of the view obstructed by the shape of the man working over her. At this angle he doesn't look like Alistair, his jaw and chin are far sharper. Alistair always shaved. The eyes are similar, the shape, the way they sweep over her face. Anders is a man who looks hungry, like he's been starving his whole life.

"Where is Zevran?" Part of the pieces are coming together now. The words _blind_ _fool_ bubbling to the surface of her mind first, the pounding in her head fading due to the mage's finger work.

"I think we've been duped. Since he's your friend, perhaps you have a better explanation? Other than he sold us out to these people on this _very_ boat." Anders moves his hands away, placing them on his lap, scooting back from her, clearly gauging the amount of space they have.

_Oh. _Persia inspects her head, her armor, the lack of weapons._ "_He very likely did sell us out. I expect I know to just who. Well, he sold me out, you just happened to be there." In the darkness she manages to find her bearings to set herself up on her elbows, the mage shifting further back from her.

"He seemed rather sneaky. Almost certainly a rogue."

"Quite. He's an assassin, a former Crow. He did lead me to the estate, convinced me the Dallin family was under command of the King of Ferelden to take me back by force to treaty with him... or be held for treason.

"Treason? You must be a very bad person to force the Great King Alistair to send men to hunt you down. No, let me guess. You started the blight!" His back is to her, the last bit or speech muffled by the barrels and sacks he's inspecting, the tone strangely light. "I think we should get their attention. The slavers or jailers, as it were."

"Try not to mock me, it's very likely I will be held for treason. And I didn't start the blight. Perhaps we should give it a bit more and properly see where we are. I'm certain this is where they store rations." Excluding her sore body, it was all she could do to stand up. While Highever was a port town, it was her mother's explicit rule that they stay away from ships unless absolutely needful for travel. What if they were taken and ransomed, or worse, killed? It was becoming obvious why Anders chose to stay on his knees. They both lacked sea legs.

There were barrels lashed down everywhere she looked, sacks clearly full of food. If it had been a planned arrest, things would have been more organized. It's been too long since she was accustomed to this, she was discovering how useless she felt in the situation at hand. If they couldn't walk, how were they supposed to get out of this? Palms pressed into her eyes, Anders's cheerful banter was driving her more than a little over the edge, the panic finally spreading, "You were a deserter then. Me, too. Though I plan to have a talk with-"

"Please, just stop! We need to get out of here. I would rather not stand before the king and his banns and be forced to give them every minute account of why I ran off, or why I didn't want to be..."

The clanging of boots on metal is what stops her, the footsteps coming down the stairs mere seconds later. This alerts them to where the door was that they had been slowly looking for and unconsciously working toward. In the dimness of the room, the fact that the person on the other side of the door doesn't miss a beat when stepping inside means that it was unlocked the entire time.


	9. The Blessed Sophia

_"Sometimes we reveal ourselves when we are least like ourselves"_**_  
__—_**_Anaïs Nin_

**The Blessed Sophia**

Quinn, the captain of_ The Blessed Sophia_ as he introduced himself, had the soft accent of one from Brandel's Reach. He also had a heavy tread, fiery hair, and deep blue eyes.

He also liked to talk. According to Quinn, Brandel's Reach was an island of fisher and sailor folk that had fallen on hard times due to The King's stance on Ferelden shipping vessels transporting slaves throughout Thedas. With no slaves to transport, it cut back on trade between the Tevinter Imperium and Sundarin since neither looked kindly on Ferelden anymore. Cailan, he reported, had been more lenient.

Wetting her lips, Persia interceded finally, "And what business are you about now?"

"I have been commanded to deliver you to the King of Ferelden." Quinn's voice was flat, to the point.

"By the Dallin family?"

"Yes. The King had a warrant put out for you, the Dallin's had access to you. I understand it was that simple." There was no arrogance in his voice, no pleasure.

Persia could feel Anders's eyes burning into her, flickering between the captain and herself. She could feel the silence stretching between them, could feel her throat constricting. _You knew this was coming. _

"Of course." It's much the same as she told Alistair, Wynne, and Morrigan. When it came to the things she wanted she let life get in the way, always other needful things. What had been planned for her? Surely she must have expected to be married off by her parents. And at the time she has rebelled against it. From her earliest memory she had taken up a sword and learned to fight, studied the history of Thedas, and the art of war alongside Fergus. Where was it, she wondered, that she had stopped fighting? Where had she given up? It must have been the flight from Ferelden.

It was Anders's voice that broke her out of her reverie, "Where am I in all of this?"

"As far as I know the King has no warrant or interest with you. You are to be let off at the port of Denerim." Quinn gestured to both of them, "Being that we are out to sea there is no longer any reason for you to be treated as common prisoners. Where can you really go? Look upon The Waking Sea."

* * *

A/N: Short update, I know. But I have three other chapters written out so expect another update soon. I credit this update to A Dance with Dragons by GRRM. I really am grateful for all the favorites this story has gotten. I am more than happy to hear what you have to think about this story, so review if you do have the time.


	10. Waking

Author's Note: Please don't ask where I've been, my life has never been this busy before. I very nearly had three chapters written out just sitting about for months. If you have the time, please leave me some feedback.

"_You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die."__  
__―__Marguerite Duras__, __Emily L._

**Waking**

The ship's railing was smooth under her fingers, the sky orange and purple as the sun sank below the horizon. Cutting a smooth path through the water, blowing the fresh sea air into her face, only the rocking of the ship made her uneasy. Closing her eyes it's Highever she imagines, the sea smells so much like home that her eyes burn with tears. The smell of the sea was Highever from the highest tower when she was five or sixteen. It was hard to remember and there only seemed to be more to think about.

Thib's whereabouts worried her, it was entirely possible he was with Zevran and Quinn hadn't seemed concerned when she'd asked if he knew. In fact he was vague, so much so that she guessed there was another ship with them on it. She hoped Thib took Zevran's arm off, that would make her feel better.

Then there was the King of Ferelden. His name was branded in her mind, a fond memory if she didn't replay the moments at the Landsmeet forward. In her dreams he didn't have a sharp edge to his voice, the way he did _after_. Never any lines at the corners of his eyes when he looked at her, his form after perpetually tensed. But, _ah_, when she dreamed of him his voice lilted, he was warm and firm against her and his laugh! In her dreams it was_ always _and_ always. _In her dreams he kissed her before they parted at the gates.

It felt sometimes like the moment she started running was the moment she stopped living.

It's a presence that brings her back from her apparent solipsism. Anders has his arms hooked over the railing, his hair grazing his chin as he studies the sky. She can feel the questions he is holding back, the tension of unspoken words hangs at the corners of his mouth, the tap of his heel giving him away completely.

"Ask it. You know you want to." The words don't come out with the bite she'd intended.

"The King of Ferelden put a warrant out for your arrest. That makes me wonder how long he's been searching for you and how long you've been running." He doesn't look at her, which is a relief because the look on her face would have given her every answer he was looking for.

"Two..." She corrects herself, "Closer to three years now. He has had other people looking for me. I suspect a number people, Leliana, obviously Zevran." If she were better at defending herself, if she hadn't spent so many nights talking during the Blight and more time preparing she wouldn't be in this situation now. "I didn't run far, Val Royeaux. I cashed in every debt and favor I could muster for a house and a small bit of peace. Can you begrudge me that, Anders?"

He doesn't take a long time to consider it, "No, but you are a Grey Warden and with it comes a certain level of responsibility."He smiles knowingly at her.

There is no shock or surprise. She felt it below deck, it's a spark between them, a tugging in the back their minds, "Why did you run?"

"In Amaranthine I ran into a Grey Warden while trying to escape a few templars. I was recruited and let's say, it wasn't up to my standards. I got away as soon as I could." He tilts his shoulders, hunches forward and continues, "Too somber, even worse than the circle. This Grey Warden was new and Orlesian. You don't have to imagine how that went over with the average folk."

It's a lot to think about. She answers him with a noncommittal sound, mirroring his hunched over form and trying to get comfortable enough to get the words out, she just wants to find the right words for it. The words that do come are slow and measured, "By the end of the Blight he was an old friend. A senior warden when I was recruited. We were the last of the wardens at the time in Ferelden and Weisshaupt was too far away. Getting a message to them was impossible since we were trying to stay somewhat ahead of the darkspawn hoard."

"The Hero of Ferelden." It's simple for him to accept, "He will have a very difficult time charging you of treason, if that's his plan. The Ferelden people will likely not stand for it."

"Perhaps." She mulled what he had said over, "Three years is a very long time to be out of the people's graces. Enough time for them to rebuild and count all their losses, time for them to cease being grateful."

"A fair point." He did accept that she might be right and that worried her.

That's what she liked about Anders, there was a lot they implied without having to spell it out.

Even in the twilight _The Blessed Sophia _was full of sailors, Quinn shouting orders to most of them. Fish still leapt in the fading light as Persia looked out at the sea one last time before turning her attention to the people around her. She wondered how long it would be until they reached land. She had accepted the fact that she was going to meet the king once and for all, if it was in irons... then so be it. She had cause to doubt it because Quinn was lenient. Catching the eye of a passing sailor she inquired how much time she had until she was home. He answered, "A week if the seas are good and a fortnight at the longest."

It was time enough to worry.


	11. The Long Walk

Author's Note: Okay... You are going to notice a big change so allow me to explain. Having finally gone thorough my Dragon Age saves, I found my main play through and the character's name was Persia. I was struck by it and inserted the name into this story, replacing that of Scarlett thinking it fit better with what I was trying to do. I hope this doesn't cause you much disturbance while reading. Also, quite a few of my reviewers have found Zevran to be particularly in character and I realize now that I subconsciously used Rudolph Valentino as a reference for him. Any fans out there? Or am I the only one? Well. If this chapter has mistakes let me know, this is rather rough. Trying to update more frequently.

"_Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."__  
__―__Anaïs Nin_

**The Long Walk**

While she hadn't been treated quite like a prisoner on_ The Blessed Sophia, _it still remained to be seen if she would be treated so on dry land. Anders and Persia had passed the last week sleeping in the cargo hold with mattresses of stuffed hay and a bath promised when they made port.

Persia stood up on the deck and watched Denerim come into view as the ship glided into port. It wasn't as breathtakingly huge as Val Royeaux and while the marketplace smells wafted over the water and had a propensity to smell of fish and meat rather than spices and perfumes, it still felt like a homecoming to her.

"Ah, wet dog," Anders waggled his eyebrows at her, "Home."

Quinn stepped up before she could reply to him with two large men in tow, and introduced them as Pate and Max. Pate had coloring similar to Quinn with a large tuft of brown hair on his chin and unruly hair with silver beads threaded throughout, while Max was the smaller of the two with bright pink cheeks, orange curly hair and a disagreeable expression on his face. Of the two, she thought, Pate might be nicer. Quinn's admonishment brought her back from her scrutiny of the men, "These two are to deliver you. Do them a favor and go willingly."

Persia hoped he felt guilty for giving her no real option. She raised her chin up and nodded with as much Cousland pride as she could manage, which she suspected wasn't much. Pate and Max gripped one arm each and guided her down the makeshift board steps to the docks. Closing her eyes she heard the murmurs of Antivan, Tevinter and Ferelden accents blending together more melodiously than she could have thought possible as they lead her through the mud.

Earlier she had said her goodbye's to Anders who had expressed hope that they might meet again, but she didn't expect she would since he had spoken about going to Kirkwall to meet a friend. When questioned he had been deliberately vague about which friend.

Denerim had more mud that Val Royeaux, perhaps even all of Orlais, and this was something she hadn't missed as it squelched beneath her feet and gripped as she pulled her leather boots free. Pate swore under his breath when he almost lost a boot to it. She had expected the tittering voices of gossips to follow her through the streets, but they did not, instead there was only the sounds of voices bartering, begging and swearing.

"Maker!" The word was pulled from her as her feet hit cobbled street, it was just beyond the very last market stalls that it started. Someone had been hard at work on this and it had been completed recently.

"He must be taking a page from Empress Celene's book." Pate muttered to Max as they paused for a moment to wipe their boots off on the rough rocks.

"But it's not nearly as good as Orlais." Max countered considering Persia's carefully schooled expression. Indeed, she was surprised that Alistair would do this. The man she had known while appreciative of aesthetically pleasing things, had at the time such a dislike of the Kingship that she'd assumed he'd be too busy trying to govern and itching to be free than to try and improve Ferelden this way.

"You should hear what else he's been trying to build!" Pate exclaimed and Max smiled, he knew she had her attention as he slyly turned his head toward Pate.

"No, what?"

"Fountains and water pipes that bring water to the castle. I guess his majesty wants hot water that the elf servants don't have to carry about the castle." Pate's grip on her arm loosened a bit as he continued on, "Talk is, his advisers aren't happy about his ideas and that the plans are so similar to the Orlesian design."

Persia gathered that Pate had spent a good deal of his time in Orlais and wasn't the typical pirate. Regardless of that fact, he was blissfully unaware of Max's intentions. Luckily a passing cart of supplies derailed Pate's current thinking and he started on about the Summerday festival and it would take some time to get Pate back to Alistair's reign.

This was enough time for her to critically compare the King's improvements to that of Orlais and wonder where she was exactly being taken. Surely not the dungeons she hoped, but she wasn't expecting to be placed in a nice room and treated like an honored guest. Fort Drakon had been freezing and a disaster trying to escape from. The words were out before she could stop herself, "You aren't – I'm not being taken to the dungeons, am I?"

Max squinted at her, his muddy brown eyes skeptical as a rather nasty smile spread across his face, but Pate interceded, "No. We were told a delegate would be meeting you at Arl Eamon's city estate."

At this news her stomach knotted. Eamon had always been nice enough and grateful to boot since she and her companions had saved him, but he was more than a little conniving beneath his calm expressions and relaxing words. And who was the delegate to the king? Leliana? Fort Drakon now seemed like a much easier stay than facing Eamon or Teagan.

Pate began again about various reconstruction projects and renovations that either had been planned or were actively being discussed by the bann's and arl's. The knots were tightening in her stomach and Pate's words pounded in her head right along with the hammering of her heart. Vaguely she wondered how Pate could know so much about Ferelden when he traveled so extensively with Quinn.

Max's grip tightened and she was thrown forward by the force of their sudden stop. Looking up, she saw the estate looming before her and behind the gate Zevran smilingly wickedly at her.


End file.
